The Ivy and The Wall
by ThreeQuartersOfTheWayThere
Summary: True friends, like ivy and the wall, both stand together and both together fall - Anonymous. Drabbles of the not-so-ordinary lives of Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1: Fish

**Hello! This will be my first Sherlock!fic and this will be co-written by my friend and I, so any dramatic change of writing style can be explained here :)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I like Sherlock very much, but sadly do not look like Steven Moffat or Mark Gatiss enough to pass of as them, so I do not own any part of Sherlock. 'Kay?**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Fish<strong>

"No Jim, we can't put other fish on the hook, that's cannibalism."

Jim Moriarty's lips formed a pout. "I don't see what's so bad about cannibalism, but I can use a swordfish if you're so opposed. They don't swim around in the Lake District do they?"

Two days ago Seb was trying (and failing) at distracting Jim from his experiment on whether underwater mammals could survive in blood, and consequently a number of dead goldfish, koi and tropical butterfly fish (all suspiciously tinged scarlet) ended up in their back garden. The neighbour's cat had a field day.

Jim let out an exasperated sigh. "Why can't you just shoot one? You're a sniper. Shouldn't you be good at it by now? God knows I've given you enough live target practice..."

"The chances of me shooting a healthy fresh-water fish is completely minuscule, this isn't Pirates of the Caribbean." A pause. "It's a film." Another pause. "This drunken pirate, named Jack Sparrow, supposedly stayed in the tropical waters for three days and three nights, and then…I'm getting off track aren't I." A slow mocking nod from Jim.

"Please Seb! Think of it as a present celebrating my birth into this world."

"Don't people usually have birthdays for that?"

"Well, I can be like the Queen, or Paddington Bear. Yes, I'll be one of three people in the world - two if you disregard the fictional talking bear from Peru - who have two birthdays. I'm special."

"You're sure special, Jim." Seb mumbled under his breath, but Jim only gave a scathing look in response before inquiring about supplies.

"Supplies? Well, I've brought with me some entertainment, food and drink - yes, I did bring the trifle you made, even with the dead pigeon layer between the jam and whipped cream - though why you thought to bring a taser I have no ide-!" The plastic device sank even as it discharged 8,000 volts into Bassenthwaite Lake. Ominous bubbles rose to the surface and popped before hundreds of unfortunate crustaceans, fish and mammals were bobbing on their sides.

Seb turned in disbelief before sighing in that special way that only John and him knew, the sound that showed the world their undying part-exasperation part-fondness.

"Well, the rangers'll have a grand day explaining this tomorrow."

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><p><strong>Please try and review because they're sweets and sunshine and everything that makes the world just a bit more beautiful, if you'll 'scuse the <em>slight<em> exaggeration :)**


	2. Chapter 2: Camping

** Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, my friends do not own Sherlock, my imaginary-cats do not own Sherlock. Shouldn't that be an indication that I do not own Sherlock?**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Camping<strong>

The tent was only intended for emergencies. People like Jim would be expected to sleep in fancy penthouses and luxury hotels. To be fair, he normally did. But a tent was the perfect camouflage and it had travelled with Jim and Sebastian wherever they went, along the spare crate of hand grenades, the emergency food box full of energy drinks and Swiss chocolate, and the battered copy of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_. However today was the first time that a large enough disaster had occurred that using the tent was necessary.

"This tent's too small," Seb grumbled as he tried to fit into the tent.

"No, you're too big. It's perfectly sized. It was a joint purchase, remember?"

Jim was sat up in a corner of the tent, cocooned in a black sleeping bag. He was reading a heavy mathematical volume that made Seb's head ache just to look at. He looked perfectly composed, and was oblivious to Seb's dilemma.

"A joint purchase? You chose the first tent you saw and then dragged me off to look at power tools!"

"A joint purchase." Jim smiled smugly and returned to his formulae.

Seb tried valiantly to fit in the tent one more time, and then finally gave up. "This is ridiculous. Look." Jim looked up and grinned. Seb fitted into the tent until it reached his knees, where his legs passed through the door and entered the icy countryside that surrounded them.

"Now, dear, I know that this wasn't entirely to plan. But they'll search the five star hotels on the other side of town first and Masterson will let us know when they do. By the time they look here, we'll be long gone."

"Five star hotels..." Seb said longingly, staring into the distance. He could almost taste the complimentary champagne.

"We can stay in this tent for one night and live. Or we can stay in a five star hotel and die a horrible, agonising death, and vanish off the face of the Earth. It's your choice."

"I never thought I'd say this, but that's a difficult decision."

"Then it's lucky that I make the decisions. If you don't stop complaining, Sebastian, the agonising death isn't ruled out. And move your feet, there's a horrible draught coming through the door. I'm practically frozen."

"It's not great camouflage. I doubt that there are many tall muscular campers in a hideous green sleeping bag. With most of their legs sticking out of their tent."

"I chose that sleeping bag especially for you. Don't you like it?"

"It's green. I am practically a beacon pointing to our whereabouts."

"I thought it would suit you! You must admit, it does compliment your eyes marvellously."

"This may be a shock to you, but being hacked to bits by an angry mob of gangsters while I'm asleep in a sleeping bag the colour of cat sick doesn't appeal to me."

"I give up on reading this book. And if mankind never discovers the theory of time travel, it's completely your fault." With that, Jim turned off the lantern that had been illuminating the tent, and plunged the small area into blackness.

Seb sighed and eventually bent his legs into the tent. An unfortunate side effect of this was that his spine felt like it was about to break into a thousand pieces. There was silence for a few moments.

"Seb! Look!"

The light clicked back on. Sebastian turned immediately, expecting to see two dozen men with knives and guns silhouetted outside the tent. Instead he saw Jim, still sitting upright, seemingly entranced by something on the floor.

"There's a mouse! It's soooo cute!" Jim picked up the scruffy field mouse and examined it.

"Jim! Turn off the light! We need to stay hidden!"

"It's adorable! Can we keep it?" Jim cried.

"There's a mouse in the tent." Seb whispered, frozen in horror.

"Please?" Jim begged.

"Jim, mice are rodents. Like rats. Or squirrels."

"...it can stay with me! It can have a hutch or a cage and lots of mouse food... mice do eat cheese, don't they? Do mice like Stilton or Camembert?"

"How did it get in?" Seb began looking for holes in the tent.

"Well, I said you should keep your feet away from the door...it would have been attracted to the light."

"Maybe there are rats? They might have crawled into the cases!"

With that, Seb began frantically unpacking the handmade Italian leather suitcases. He tipped their contents over the tent floor, whilst Jim continued playing with his new best friend.

"I'm going to call him Magnus. Hello Magnus!" The mouse squeaked in reply.

"No rats, thank God. I hate rats." Seb shuddered.

"I know. Remember Sumatra?"

"That was a cruel joke and you know it." Then Seb noticed that Jim was no longer holding the mouse.

"Where's the rodent?" Seb looked around, as if expecting it to attack him.

"He's not a rodent! His name is Magnus. I think he ran away." Jim looked around the tent mournfully, while Seb breathed a sigh of relief.

Suddenly Jim's phone began to ring. Jim found it under the pile of designer clothes in the middle of the floor and answered it, giving no greeting. He listened in silence for about ten seconds, before hanging up and carefully replacing his phone under the pile.

"That was Masterson. They're on their way here, the explosive shower gel didn't work as well as intended. We need to go."

As they quickly packed away the tent (well, Seb packed everything away while Jim grumbled, gave orders and cursed the creases in his precious Westwood suit) Seb was extremely grateful that they were going.

As they walked towards the Porsche, Seb felt something wriggling inside his jacket pocket. Putting down the suitcases, he searched and extracted a small warm bundle of fur and claws.

"Magnus!" said Jim, overjoyed, as Seb sprinted towards the Porsche as fast as his legs could carry him.


	3. Chapter 3: Kingdom

**Disclaimer: All rights for Sherlock belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Arthur Conan Doyle and I'm absolutely sure that none of them are my names, no matter how much I want to be called the Moffster ;)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Kingdom<strong>

The people of London milled through the streets, oblivious. The newspapers always missed the biggest story of all. Politicians spoke of minor concerns, but not the one that really mattered.

No one knew the truth.

Everyone in London, Europe, everyone in the world was clueless about the man who stood in the shadows, remaining hidden yet always there. Those who knew his name would never speak it, for the penalty was too high. Only those with nothing to lose would shout it out with abandon. There were kings and queens and presidents, yes, but they were mere puppets. The educated people of the world believed in democracy and voted freely, but never knew that their options were controlled by one man.

Jim Moriarty had started small in tiny regions of London and spread out, until his empire had dominated the globe. Connections were useful things. Now there was simply no one who could stop him; those who tried were put on Seb's list, and no-one wanted that. The organisation was so cleverly made up that the police would never trace it back to Jim, a seemingly mousy man with a respectable career in advanced mathematics.

But Sherlock Holmes could.

Sebastian worried about this man. He frequently wondered why Jim let him live, but he realised that Jim just didn't often get to meet someone as clever as himself. He had heard stories of past rivals and they never ended happily. So Sebastian lived in hope that one day, Jim would get bored of Sherlock Holmes and he could put his fears at rest.

As he walked through the busy London streets, with all of the people living their excruciatingly mundane lives, he couldn't help but curse their blindness. Evidence of Jim's reign was all around if they looked hard enough. He could find out anything about anyone, and use it to his advantage.

However he could just as easily destroy his bathroom in an experiment (he had been trying to find out the perfect temperature in which to boil hydrochloric acid, which involved filling the bath full of water and pouring a litre of the chemical in), which is why Seb was currently walking around London, looking for a spanner (to fix the mangled and partially melted pipes) and a new bath. This, Jim insisted, had to be exactly the same as the old one. And the old one had been an antique from Paris.

For a genius, Seb pondered, Jim could be extremely stupid sometimes. Sometimes he swore he did this just to irritate him. Suddenly he saw a hardware shop over the road. He could get the spanner and tell Jim to book a flight to Paris.

As he walked past the traffic lights a smile came to his face.

The world was Jim's kingdom, and Seb wouldn't have it any other way.


	4. Chapter 4: Museum

**Really hope you like this one, and please review :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, since Sherlock honestly wouldn't be as good if it was. There; proof.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: Museum<strong>

Stakeout. He had been through many of them before, but this one really was a nightmare. Multiple entrances and exits, all sorts of nooks and crannies that a target could avoid attention in and little cover for himself, considering that the triangular glass roof of the Great Court was, well, transparent. Jim, the one with a flair for dramatics, would only appear for a few seconds after their target had been shot down. Seb had been given stern instructions to shoot one Mr. Esteban Garcia on his front, most preferably in the chest so he would be conscious to see Jim Moriarty wave gleefully upon the roof before falling into an eternal sleep. At least, that was the plan.

The setting for this grand escapade? The British Museum. Seb would be on stakeout for the latter half of four hours while Jim waltzed around. 217 minutes later, Jim appeared suddenly from the stairs usually only open for maintenance and staff. Of course, the curator had handed them the access card a few days previous.

"I got you a gold chalice as a souvenir, "Jim said, obviously expecting praise. "It once belonged to some king from the 11th – or was it 12th? – century and I thought it would look very nice on our mantelpiece inbetween the Nunchuks and the Brazilian_ panellus stipticus_."

"Jim! That's an ancient artefact displayed for the viewing pleasure of the public!" Seb hissed angrily.

Jim's face fell. "You don't like it? I can get you something else if you want. I spied a very nice Viking battleaxe from the new exhibition they've got; then there's also the goblet from the Mycenaean gallery in Room 12b-" Sadly however, Jim never got the chance to finish his sentence as he suddenly got unceremoniously pushed to the ground.  
>"What was that for?" he whispered. "You must know that violence is never the solution, Seb." At Seb's incredulous look and unsubtle gesture towards the M-107 Sniper Rifle in his hands Jim's mouth formed a sardonic grin.<p>

"If you really want to know, our target has just entered the hall via the southern entrance, and if he looked up even the slightest fraction more then the plan you've formed is ruined." Seb's target was a man of Cuban descent, his plump figure encased in a Hugo Boss suit. His dark hair was slicked back with grease, and polished leather shoes squeaked upon contact with the marble floor. He turned slightly towards the left before walking purposefully towards the Ticket Office. At least, that was what he would've done if he didn't suddenly have a .50-cal bullet slotted neatly between his 6th and 7th ribs.

The silencer on the rifle did its job, and no-one noticed the dying traitor on the floor, crimson staining the front of his suit until Jim and Seb were out of the way. Only then did Seb turn back to Jim and shot him a look that translated to _'Seriously? Did you really just say that?'_

"Now what did you say about violence?"


	5. Chapter 5: Public Transport

**Disclaimer: ..._don't own sherlock, no matter how much I want to...but even if I di-id, I still wouldn't stop-employing-Steven-Moffat-and-Mark-Gatiss... _now you can start laughing at my lyrical skills (that is to say, I have none.)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: Public Transport<strong>

"Two criminals, making their dramatic getaway from a crime scene that soon will be all over the global news...by London bus. If anyone ever finds out about this, Seb, I will not be held responsible for my actions."

Seb sighed. He knew it was his fault. He had put his faith into the wrong man, who had promised to drive the getaway car and get the keys to the secret offices of MI6. Instead he had told the Government of their plan (thankfully not revealing names) and they had barely escaped with their liberty. Seb planned to remedy the situation later, but now he was with Jim, on a bus, with a briefcase full of top secret documents.

And of course Jim had chosen today to get involved, temporarily bored of standing on the sidelines. However, Seb mused, he should be thankful that Jim came. If he hadn't Seb would probably have been in an underground holding cell.

They were receiving odd looks from the other occupants of the bus. The seats beside them were both empty. When Seb had moved to sit down next to Jim, he sent Seb a glare that was usually reserved for arch nemeses and at the same time took a knife out of his pocket. Message received, Seb sat in front of him, and was now uncomfortably twisted in his seat in order to talk. Jim looked as relaxed as ever, a pale hand on top of a nondescript briefcase, which contained enough information to bring down a government.

The occupants of the bottom deck of the bus ranged from old women to young children with their parents and lone teenagers. One of whom, Seb noticed, was playing extremely loud rave music, judging by the sounds leaking out of his headphones. He also noticed Jim becoming increasingly irritated by the noise.

Soon all of the seats were filled apart from those beside Seb and Jim. Rush hour was a bad time to escape from a crime scene. A middle-aged man in a suit got on the bus and looked for a seat. He saw Seb's 6"3muscular frame, looked slightly scared and moved to sit down next to Jim. He seemed unaware of the look Jim gave him, which promised a slow and painful death, so Jim passed the briefcase forwards for Seb to look after.

Seb placed the briefcase under his seat and rested his head against the window. He was half asleep when a sudden explosion caught his attention. Looking up, he saw that the teenager's headphones now had smoke coming out of them, and was shocked but secretly overjoyed that the irritating noise had stopped. He turned backwards to glare at Jim, who was looking innocently out of the window. Whilst slipping a small black remote control into his jacket pocket.

"Jim..." he hissed, barely audible.

"Oh look," said Jim, still looking out of the window, "it's our stop."

They disembarked the bus at the next bus stop, and began to walk the remainder of the journey back to Jim's apartment. Suddenly Jim looked up at Seb.

"Seb...where's the briefcase? That we risked our lives for? That I gave to you for 2 minutes to look after?"

Seb cursed loudly, causing a mother walking by to stare at him disapprovingly.

"It's on the bus. Under the seat..."

"You idiot!" Now the insanity was in Jim's eyes as he sprang at Seb, but he was no match for him physically.

Seb was tempted to point out that if Jim hadn't destroyed that kid's earphones then he wouldn't have been distracted and would have remembered the case. But for some strange reason he did enjoy having full use of all his limbs.

"There is a way we could make this work to our advantage..."

The next day, Seb was cooking breakfast at Jim's flat when he heard the announcement on the television:

"...has denied all knowledge of the robbery. However the police can confirm that the briefcase was found at his home and he has been brought in for questioning."

Seb glanced at the screen, only to see the man who had betrayed them to the police. So Jim had saved them two jobs- what to do about the documents and the traitor. As Jim entered the kitchen and began blending fruit, Seb grinned.

No one would ever know.

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><p><strong>P.S anyone who guesses who wrote which story can have a mountain of cyber-cookies; it's pretty easy, just look at the difference in skill between mine and my friend's...now I'll stop my self-depreciation :')<strong>


	6. Chapter 6: Rivalry

**Disclaimer: Still don't own Sherlock, but we'll let you know when that changes :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 6: Rivalry<strong>

For years Jim and Seb had worked together, as a unit, a team. Jim would give the orders, Seb would carry them out. It was a simple arrangement. But the sudden arrival of Philip Montrose had spoilt that.

Philip was an expert marksman, blackmailer and forger. He could do everything Seb could do and many things he couldn't. Needless to say, Seb hated him. He was Jim's third in command, after himself and Seb. But Seb was paranoid that could soon change.

Today he had gone to Jim's apartment, only to find that Philip, sitting with Jim as they poured over the blueprints of the Bank of England. Seb hadn't been invited to this discussion, so naturally felt slightly irritated. This annoyance grew rapidly; as Jim closed the blueprints faster than if the Met had just entered.

Then he said "Sebastian. What did I say about knocking? I would assume that Eton had taught you some manners..." before engaging in conversation with Philip.

After that he gave Philip the front door key, which riled Seb even more.

But it wasn't until Jim ordered Seb to fetch the tea that he left the flat and went home.

Seb didn't know what to do. He could shoot Philip Montrose easily, however he couldn't guarantee Jim's reaction. He would in all likelihood either applaud him or kill him.

Seb had never considered Jim getting bored of him and replacing him with someone else. He had seen it happen to numerous other operatives, but naively never thought that he would be one of them. 'We're special,' he would think at every replacement he witnessed. 'He won't replace me.'

Indeed, Sebastian had become closer to Jim than (he strongly suspected) anyone else had ever been. He still didn't understand the man, and worried about his sanity. Jim only spoke Latin on Tuesdays and Ancient Greek on Fridays. He was allergic to some washing powders so Seb only ever used non-bio (he was the one to do the laundry - Jim should never be let near a washing machine.) He usually ate with chopsticks rather than cutlery. How would Philip know any of this?

He didn't know when he fell asleep, but he woke from vicious nightmare early the next morning. Seb was still shaking faintly as he reached for the remote and turned on the news. A young male newsreader sat in a studio, an expression of pity on his face.

"_Scotland Yard can confirm from dental records that the man found late last night was a Mr Philip Montrose from Central London. Our sources can exclusively reveal that he was a member ofMI6, though the Government have confirmed nothing. Police are calling the death suspicious and are urging any witnesses to come forward..."_

Seb leant forwards, hardly daring to believe it. Suddenly his phone buzzed. He had an new text message.

_Am making breakfast. Eggs fried or boiled? _

_JM_

Seb cursed under his breath as he ran to catch a cab. He only hoped that the kitchen would be mostly intact when he arrived.


	7. Chapter 7: Technology

**Bit of a short one I'm afraid, but my omniscient Beta acted as adviser and I trust her :D**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. How much more blunt do you need to get?**

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><p><strong>Chapter 7: Technology<strong>

Ebay's versatility was mind-blowing. How much more specific did he have to get?

"Does it have to be pink? I mean, the colour is hardly inconspicuous...and I just don't think it was the type of shade you would've gone fo-" Jim's dawning face of horror was deeply savoured.

"It's not for me."

"-and I personally thought black or blue would suit you better, maybe a bit of purple or red – what?"

"It's not for me! And you want to deck me out in the colour of cuts and bruises? The most spectacular ones form in the-"

"Abdominal region. Yes, personal experience has done me proud. You have no idea how much a blow to the stomach with a soup ladle bruises. Next time, I make dinner." A subtle side-glance and an arch of an eyebrow. "Your pouting is pitiful."

Jim made a surprisingly feminine expression. "people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." He recited.

"You're quoting Chaucer at me?" Seb blinked.

Two days ago, Jim came up to Seb to tell him that he needed a phone case in a – frankly – violent shade of pink. In Seb's opinion, he had handled the situation pretty well, with only the occasional remark questioning why he would be in need of a case when he changes phones every other week.

"You hate touch screens Jim, so I don't see why you think that the iPhone 5 prototype – which you're making us steal from the factory – is really necessary."

"I do like touch screens! And anyway, all the other criminal masterminds have them."

"You know other criminal masterminds?"

"Of course! You have your group of ex-army fanatics, I have my masterminds. We meet up on alternate Wednesdays to discuss tear gas and the Dos and Don'ts of criminal masterminding over tea and scones– though I changed that soon enough to meringues, scones do get stuck in your teeth sometimes, and more often than not we have some evil confrontation straight afterwards."

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><p>"I need you to scratch the bottom left corner 3 inches in and drop it on its side a few times. In replicas the details are too easily overlooked."<p>

"Why can't you do it? It's not really that difficult."

"I have nefarious plans to execute, and manual work is beyond me."

"I live to serve." Seb quipped dryly. Which of course went either unnoticed or ignored.

"Nice to know, Seb."

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><p>"I now need you to write like a girl."<p>

"What does a girl write like?"

"How am I meant to know?"

"So you expect me to have it in my inexhaustible store of knowledge that is my brain?"

"If your brain is anything like Google, which I personally doubt, then yes. Otherwise, take the calligraphy lessons I've booked for you."

"Jim! I'm an anonymous sniper, 6"3 and carry a Sig Sauer in my coat pocket. You can't expect me to take calligraphy lessons!"

"Well, you can be a 6"3 anonymous armed sniper _and_ a master in calligraphy. A contradiction in terms, Seb, can be invaluable at the worst of times, trust me." Those last two words struck fear into his heart.

The funny thing was, he already did.


	8. Chapter 8: Coma

**Short one today, sorry 'bout that, but it just seemed like a good place to stop :)**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss, and since I'm neither a writing genius nor a bloke I don't own any aspect of Sherlock. At all.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 8: Coma<strong>

_It isn't meant to work like this. It's all wrong. I want Seb back._

He looked so frail, so small against the backdrop of off-white hospital sheets, despite being 6"3 from the tip of his blond head to the bottom of his size 11 feet. _Cerebral hemorrhaging, they said. Only minor, it was a good thing you got him here so quickly. _If you ignored the demolition of several traffic laws it was a miracle. _We'll keep him in ICU until he's well enough to be moved to the normal recovery wards. _

Naturally he got Seb one of the private wards, where there was more than a piece of plastic curtain to maintain the illusion of privacy. The back of the chair dug into his spine, which no amount of expensive fabric could cushion. He was going to wake up soon. Jim saw the slight flare of his nose and how his breathing picked up again. It was slightly irregular. So, the last stages of REM sleep. _6-8 weeks of recovery period. No strenuous exercise, I'm sure you know._

He had been sitting on that minty green chair by Seb's bedside for close to 8 hours now, and all but the most stupid of nurses had stayed away, somehow sensing his inevitably spectacular response if anyone tried to enforce standard visiting hours upon him. For those who needed a more obvious prompt, as there always are, a look was enough. It somehow projected tides of hatred and violence into his gaze, and Nurse Helena truly felt sorry for those who had harmed his friend, accomplice, partner-in-crime. There were too many words to describe what and who Seb was to Jim.

He took it for him, a blunt blow at the crown of the head. _It was a straight forward hit to the Cerebellum right at the back of the head, so his motor controls, concentration and balance will be off for a while. _Seb's a fucking sniper, he needs his motor controls! He could've been a surgeon if he wished. They could force single malt whisky down his throat and he'd still be able to shoot a moving target. It would just get a little messy, that's all. Seb had thin fingers, they were pale even though they were once tanned from the Indian sun, and purplish veins pulsed as he pulled back the trigger to end someone's life.

Jim could never give him up for the 'greater good'; he was much too selfish for that.

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><p><strong>Anyone who wishes to give us a prompt, please do :)<strong>


	9. Chapter 9: Recovery

**Sorry for the late update, life calls sometimes, as much as I wish to stay on Fanfiction forever...**

**Disclaimer: Really can't think of anything funny at the moment..._need...sleep..._oh, BTW, I now own Sherlock. In my dreams. Mmm...**

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><p>Patience was never on Seb's list of virtues. A bit ironic, considering his current occupation. Waiting for Jim at the entrance of St Thomas' Hospital was not how he wished to spend his day. Not that he had much choice. Reception would not let him leave; he must be escorted by 'a trusted friend or family.' Like a child. Sebastian Moran hadn't been in this kind of situation for many refreshing years, the last time being when he sprained his ankle training for javelin. The injury never left a permanent hindrance, and he was more cautious from then on. The waiting was the same though.<p>

"Seb! I bought meringues if you want them! They're the extra small ones so we can eat on the go, and I got raspberry and white chocolate just for you." Jim's shoes didn't make a sound as he walked, left hand grasping a lime green plastic bag.

Seb's face was dubious. "You were an hour late to buy me meringue?"

"Nice to know you understand. And if you're _really_ curious, the queue was surprisingly long, so don't blame me." It wasn't like in the movies, with their sleek black cars and anonymous number plates. Seb loaded himself into the people carrier, a pleasant shade of beige on the inside and dull grey on the outside. There was no high-tech equipment beyond the thin not-quite-a-phone _thing_ in Jim's hand.

And so they drove.

It became evident as the chauffeur completely passed Torrington Square that Seb's homely minimalist apartment wasn't what he was going to be seeing today. Or tomorrow. Soon Seb knew where they were going. To Jim's.

Jim Moriarty's bachelor pad wasn't exactly typical. For one thing, he had four different locks on the door. That is, the first door. The last security system seemed like something out of_Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ (Seb had already finished the series; Goblet of Fire was his favourite). Sadly, any technologically powered locks were automatically rejected; just like how Jim always had a hard copy of his elaborate plans, he rarely trusted computer software as a meaningful and reassured way of saving his 'masterpieces'.

"You can take the third door on the left." Jim called out from the kitchen. "It has a picture of a goat on it, even you can't miss it." Seb refrained from asking why. The guest room, dissimilar to the impersonal cream tones they usually contained, strangely enough was modelled after his own bedroom back at home. Monochrome was the overwhelming feeling, sharp corners piercing out, from the drawing desk to the crisply folded newspaper by his bedside table. It was almost as if he crossed a portal to a different dimension. Seb walked over and picked up the newspaper. The date read 20th November 2011. Today.

_Robbery at IKEA!_


	10. Chapter 10: Moving In

**Disclaimer: I. Don't. Own. Sherlock. Get it? (I swear no-one appreciates now difficult making disclaimers funny - or at least my often twisted version of humour - and now I've ran out of ideas, so _bleh_ to you)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 10: Moving In<strong>

Seb had gone home three days ago and Jim had reacted almost indifferently to his departure. He did enjoy living at his flat- it was simple and understated with plain yet modern furnishings, the polar opposite of Jim's with its antique decorations combined with the latest gadgets. When he woke up, he found the fridge in urgent need of restocking and so set off to Waitrose, glad for the opportunity to stretch his legs. The usual paranoia that followed a serious injury still clung to him and he eyed his fellow pedestrians suspiciously. It was rather strange, the path in the discerning area seemed a bit desolate, at least for a Saturday morning. A glance of police tape was ignored; he'd been to enough crime scenes to become desensitized. It was true that a criminal always returns to view his masterpiece.

By the time he had finished shopping he was more relaxed, and strolled home with several carrier bags in each hand. He was enjoying the walk, that is, until he turned the corner that would lead him to his flat. He froze, all good humour gone.

What had been a building, _his __building_, a mere half an hour before was now a pile of rubble. There were bulldozers everywhere, even a crane and builders stood around the wreckage with drills.

Seb simply stood there for about five minutes before engaging one of the builders in conversation. Apparently a private company had bought the land and had ordered the demolition of the block of flats in order to build a new leisure centre. The head builder even showed him the papers ordering the demolition dated months before when he questioned the validity.

Seb took out his phone and pressed 8 on his speed dial.

"Sebastian!" A cheery voice came from the other end, "what's wrong? I said the painkillers were on the top shelf-"

"Jim, why has my block of flats been demolished?"

A long pause.

"Stranger things have happened before, you know. Someone must have bought the land and ordered the demolition."

"Someone with exactly the same name as one of your false identities?"

"The likelihood is rather small but still possible. Do you need more painkillers?"

Seb sighed - Jim worried too much. But Seb's head was beginning to ache from the unnecessary aggravation.

"I'll come over to pick them up."

Jim was watching the television avidly when Seb arrived in the penthouse.

"They're in the spare room, where you left them." he called without moving his eyes from the screen.

Seb decided not to question why Jim was watching Balamory, left the Waitrose carrier bags in the hallway and walked to the spare room. He'd spent the past week there recovering so knew the way. He opened the door.

Inside were all his belongings from his old flat.

They had even all been unpacked for him.

"Oh good!" he heard Jim say from the hallway. "I needed some pistachios, I've got this little thing I'm working on..."


	11. Chapter 11: Fear

**Well, this is being reposted now that it has been beta'd, though not much has been changed since my lovely Beta is wayy too generous with her editing...not that I'm complaining...**

**BTW – our lovely anonymous reviewer who gave us the prompt 'stars' – the chapter should be up by Tuesday if we stay on schedule, and even if we don't it'll be the next chapter :)**

**Prompts are still welcomed, so please send them to us!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, and also can't be bothered to make this funny, since the tennis is on and Federer is amazing :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 11: Fear<strong>

_The green was closing in like a disease. Forest, khaki, lime, it seemed to never end. A flash of orange, and everything was okay again. Anything to be away from the green. The orange was advancing, and seams of black leaking through with reaching, desperate hands. He didn't care; the contrast from the heat and the wet and the _green_ was welcomed with open arms. A flash, and all he could see was red._

Seb rose from the sea of Lethe, eyes wide, chest heaving. The bed-sheets were wrapped around his legs. Strangely enough, Seb never made a noise in his nightmares; something which Jim once remarked soon after moving in with him. Jim never slept; also one of the many things they found out about each other. Instead he took small cat-nap-Zen-meditations in 15 minute intervals. Seb had a taste for oriental opera though Jim could never stand the piercing sound, and he was cranky if he woke with less than four hours of sleep. Something which was coming into effect just about now.

He sighed in resignation. Short of taking sleeping pills – Jim got one hell of a tongue-lashing the last time he drugged his English Breakfast - he wasn't going to get anymore rest tonight. Or rather, today.

"How's it going?" Jim's eyes were not on him; in fact, he wasn't focusing any at all. Rather, he gazed forward into a mark on the wall only he could see. Seb didn't jump, or twitch. He was used to sudden remarks out of the blue; expect the unexpected was all he _could_ do to prepare living with one Jim Moriarty. After all, snapping your head round at every fish Jim had half-dissected that was now flopping helplessly soon tired you out.

"Fine." Anyone half-blind could see he was lying. Jim asked what happened this time, still not moving from his position.

"You died." Seb whispered. Still, not a response. "I found you just lying there, in a field. There were others there with you, all covered in blood. Their own, I think. Their eyes were open, twisted in hatred. There were claw marks on the ground and charred flesh poisoned the air. The devil was taking you to hell, and you brought them down with you."

No response.

"You still looked pristine, and the hands on the corpses were reaching out for you, reaching for each other. Some of them had chunks taken out of them, in others their throat was slit and the sluggish flow of blood was turning black. They wanted revenge for their gruesome deaths; I could see it on their faces, what they would do to you if they could. You wouldn't be dead, oh no, they'd keep you alive by a thread for days with knife shards in your stomach and your tongue cut out. They'd burn you lightly, perhaps just singe your hair or firearm a foot to the ankle. You'd be begging for death and mercy and _peace_, something you never gave them, and they'd laugh."

Still nothing.

"SAY SOMETHING, DAMMIT!" Seb roared, eyes bulging from their sockets. "DO SOMETHING, ANYTHING! Turn the light on, talk to me, do the fucking Cha-Cha for all I care! RESPOND!"

"You lied." The surprise on Seb's face was non-existent, but Jim knew better. "That wasn't what you dreamed about. There's no violence in your nightmares, blood and gore and pain is restricted to the land of the living. Instead you have fear and rage and _loss_, and that hurts more, doesn't it."

There was no acceptance in his gaze, but neither was there derision.


	12. Chapter 12: Stars

**I absolutely love this chapter, written by my dearest co-writer and am in love with it...**

**Prompt please? We're both really unimaginative :l  
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**Disclaimer: Dno't own Scloehrk...udrtenasnd?  
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><p><strong>Chapter 12: Stars<strong>

Seb woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of the front door slamming loudly. His first thought was of Jim - who was asleep (or at least suspiciously quiet) in the next room, for the first time in a week. Jim had been extremely temperamental for the last few days, shutting himself into his room and sometimes disappearing for hours at a time. Tonight Jim had returned early, announced that he was tired and promptly went to bed, much to Seb's relief.

Now it was pitch black, and the shadows of the night were cast over the furniture in Seb's room. He reached for the plastic light switch, only to find that the light wouldn't turn on. There must have been a power cut, and Seb sighed in annoyance before fetching a torch out of his bedside table (he was always prepared) and turning it on. He walked into Jim's room, after decoding the secret message and finding today's keys.

Jim's room had been ransacked. Important documents lay all over the floor, the curtains had been ripped from the rails and the four poster bed had been virtually destroyed. The sheets were torn to shreds and the duvet looked as if it had been set on fire. It was still smoking slightly.

Most worryingly of all - Jim wasn't there.

Seb raced outside, fetching his rifle from the gun room and holding the torch in one hand. He noticed that the power cut seemed to have extended throughout the building- none of the lights in the hallway were on. He suddenly saw a light which was on, above the stairs that led to the roof like an invitation. He obeyed and walked quickly up the spiral staircase.

Jim was lying on his stomach on the roof, writing frantically on a piece of paper. He had a pen in one hand and covering the ground before him were pieces of paper covered in his neat handwriting, graphs showing the position of the surrounding galaxies, tables matching the distance of stars with their brightness and colour and pages of mathematical formulae. A large telescope stood before him, pointing at the jet black sky which was filled with glowing balls of gas. He continued writing as Seb stared at him in shock.

"It took you a week to work this out. Frankly, Sebastian, I'd expect someone this important in my organisation to be more observant."

Seb looked around him. Now he was on the roof he could see most of Central London, and realised that all of the street lamps and other artificial light sources were off.

"I assume the power cuts are your work?"

"Light pollution. Gets in the way, you can't see the stars properly. No one is awake at this time, and those who are assume it's a power cut. It is _ever_ so easy to hack into the electrical supply."

Seb squinted at the papers. "What are these?"

Jim smiled a genuinely happy grin: "My magnum opus. I call it _The Dynamics of an Asteroid_. Basically, everything you know about astronomy is wrong; this book proves it and then gloats for several hundred pages."

"And why did you destroy your room?"

"Inspiration finally struck. I couldn't find a pen."

Seb examined the telescope. "I thought you liked maths..."

"But astronomy and maths are so closely linked! The orbits of the moons and planets, even the alignment of the stars and the placement of the Sun! It's all there! Don't you see?" Jim leapt to his feet and stared into Seb's confused face for several seconds. His expression changed from manic glee to crushing disappointment in the space of a second.

"Of course you don't," he muttered, and sank back to the ground, turning his back on Seb and continuing to write.

There was an awkward silence. Seb sat down next to Jim, who didn't look up.

"I can navigate by the stars," Seb said "Once, when I was in India, our map blew away and we had to get to our checkpoint by morning. I found the Pole Star so we could travel north, and we found our way from there."

Seb lay on the cold concrete of the roof, feeling sharp stones stab between his shoulder blades.

"It's there," he pointed into one of the small lights in the infinite blackness and closed his eyes.

He froze as he felt Jim recline next to him.

"That one is the Dog Star, or Sirius. You see how it aligns with the Pole Star? I won't explain the equation which says how, but it is _fascinating_..."

"I'll take your word for it."

"The Dog Star is the brightest star in the sky, and is in a prominent position in the constellation Canis Major..."

Jim spoke for hours, giving Seb a complicated narrative on the state of the night sky. Seb didn't know when he fell asleep, but for once he wasn't plagued by nightmares. He dreamt of rings around Saturn and moons around Jupiter, and supernovas and other celestial wonders whose secrets were known only to Jim.

Sebastian Moran woke up the next day on an empty rooftop, with a stiff back and a mind full of stars.


	13. Chapter 13: Jealousy

**From an anonymous review prompt; this is for you.**

**Disclaimer: I bow down to the excellence of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and many others, _I_ probably wouldn't even watch _Sherlock_ if I wrote it...**

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><p><strong>Chapter 13: Jealousy<strong>

"You're not cleaning it again, are you?" asked Jim with disdain.

"It, as you so disgracefully call my beauty, is a _she_. Just like how no sailor simply accepts their vessel being degraded to the status of a mere 'boat', how no decent wizard would misplace their wand, a sniper such as myself treats my ladies with respect."

"If I had known this is what you would have come to – cuddling a bloody inanimate object like your own mother – I'd have given you some socks for your birthday. Or a grenade at least. You have genuine hearts in your eyes." He drawled.

Imagine; Sebastian Moran, tall, blonde, utterly masculine and hardcore in every way (barring his dislike for rats), sitting on the desk and fondling the pieces of a gun. Normally Jim would've smirked and praised himself on finding such a meaningful present. He has excellent taste, after all.

But that's rather lost its charm.

This is the third night Seb was sitting in the darkness of their flat reassembling, cleaning and recleaning the parts of his beloved. Such sleek lines, perfect weight distribution, a chrome-highlighted finish catching the city lights just _so_. Were he to have his way, he would demand custom-made ammunition too... but that would defeat her purpose. After all, she is meant to lead Scotland Yard in circles, a short-range bullet in most definitely not short-range circumstances. However Seb was finding it a little difficult to break her in. It wasn't her fault; it would never be her fault, and just thinking of blaming his own shortcomings upon her broke his heart.

"It's not you, it's me? That's really the angle you're going at?"

"She deserves a proper first time-"

"She's – its – not your girlfriend and you going at it together. It's a gun."Jim's eyes softened. "Let her do what she's made for. Let her be free." He gave a small smile towards Seb, compelling him to release her from his own insecurities.

Seb's face went slack, and he turned towards the floor-to-ceiling window. "You're right. I'm simply holding her back from her full potential. She deserves better than me, and I'll spend the rest of my life trying to prove myself to her. I'll strive to be better, to be enough for h-" _crack_

He spun around, a look of horror marring his features. Her beautiful body had snapped clean in two, jagged edges now sullying her once elegant frame. The nose had been forcibly removed from the trigger along with the telescopic sights custom-built for his eyes, and a further terrible look revealed the hindquarters to have separated as well. The trigger section was still attached to an arm though, which connected to a shoulder, which connected to a body which Seb finally believed had no soul.

"She deserves a proper first time."

This was when Jim finally realised Seb's interest (_obsession_) had gone a bit too far. He sidled forward as Seb turned his back, and reached out for the source of his frustration. Seb had barely kept up a conversation in three days, and Jim just wanted his mostly sane flatmate back. His hands brushed against the smooth, handcrafted, elegant contraption, and he had never hated it more. The other hand crept up to snap the instrument-

It would break Seb's heart. He loved this thing, and it would crush his heart of lead (_muscle tissue_) to pieces. Jim would have to spend more time putting them back together, or crushing them smaller.

It's for the greater good, he thinks (_convinces himself_), but he knows it's just for his own.


End file.
